This had been going on for more than two months. She sat up and pulled her composition notebook out the nightstand drawer and began to sketch in pencil. The cloudy daylight seeping in the bedroom window was bright enough. There were forty plus dated pages with basically the same drawing, a litte stone well with a wooden roof. Each morning Flora woke with more details, the pores in the rock, the varitions in moss, the fraid rope, the cracked bucket. It was as if she was getting closer. It still didn't make any sense and she'd given up on tyring to make any associations with the image and her past. She pushed a wisp of her dark brown hair away from her even darker brown eyes and then yawned deeply. Despite the nightly recurrence of the dream, Flora felt rested.
Kyle was still asleep next to her, a tall and handsome surfer boy in his late twenties that is frequently reffered to as hot. He's also smart, faithful, considerate, sensitive and holds no interest professional sports. They met six months ago through a mutual friend at open house for the accupunture clinic where Kyle sticks needles in people and makes them feel better.
Last night after dinner Kyle told Flora he loved her. She didn't know how to respond and just stood there in front of the sink holding a soapy, blue plate that still had a few bits of quinoa on it. This should be great she though. Instead of getting annoyed or angry with her lack of response, Kyle told her that it's ok if she didn't know how to react and that he just wanted her to know what he was feeling.
And that was the problem, Flora felt nothing.